


Where It Hurts

by lesshoney



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Imprisonment, M/M, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-25
Updated: 2015-07-25
Packaged: 2018-04-11 03:25:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4419374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesshoney/pseuds/lesshoney
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James Wesley's biology is restricted intellectual property.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where It Hurts

**Author's Note:**

> from the Daredevil kinkmeme, original prompt was: Wesley has always known pregnancy is a possibility, but he has kept it very quiet. He hasn't even told Fisk, and they've been having sex for years. Unfortunately, Wesley gets careless.
> 
> Warning: Medical examination without consent. Imprisonment. And mpreg, obviously.

Wesley stepped out of Fisk’s penthouse bathroom re-folding his handkerchief. He tucked it back into his pocket and swallowed.

Fisk, in the middle of his breakfast, pretended not to notice, or maybe he really didn’t notice, Wesley’s absence and quick return. Wesley perched on the edge of a chair at the kitchen table and glanced at Fisk, the omelette in front of him, and then ripped his eyes away. He breathed lightly through his mouth and stared resolutely out the window as Fisk’s knife and fork scraped against his plate.

“Are you well, Wesley?” Fisk asked.

“Yes.” Wesley made himself drag his tablet to him. They would go through Fisk’s itinerary for the day, and with any luck now his stomach was settled.

Fisk had insisted on making him some toast, even though he’d said - emphatically - that he wasn’t hungry. A slightly burnt smell reached them from the kitchen counter.

“Excuse me,” Wesley said, and made for the bathroom again.

He got through the rest of the breakfast meeting. Fisk suggested he take the day off; Wesley smiled wanly and said it was nothing to worry about. Fisk shrugged, dismissed him, and now Wesley was tight-lipped and still feeling nauseous as he looked for the black Cadillac on the street. Some idiot cop had probably made Francis pull out of the tow zone. Hopefully Francis had his name, and Wesley could see the officer was _thanked_ for his dedicated service.

Forget Fisk’s breakfast, the entire city had a particular stink today. The smell of exhaust from the passing cars, the garbage, cigarettes. Everything. Wesley ran his eye down the block, looking again for the car. He could ask Francis to stop at a pharmacy. Francis would be discrete. 

He paged back through his mental calendar, and checked the date on his phone. Six weeks. God. Damn. It.

He was looking down at his phone when he became aware of someone in his path. He drew up short, scowling, expecting to see some youth with the cord of their earbuds dangling like a malnourished tail.

Instead it was a tall, solidly-built man with a military crew cut. Wesley glanced left and right, and saw two more men with almost identical haircuts converging on him while looking casual. Shit.

Crew-Cut spread his hands as if they were old pals. “James Wesley.” It wasn’t a question.

Wesley smiled reflexively. “Yes?”

The man smiled back, but it wasn’t exactly a smile.

He didn't have time to reach for his piece, or hit the panic button on his phone, or do much of anything except turn the smile into an incredulous sort of grimace. A pair of hands got a hood over his head and he was lifted, bodily, he felt his feet leave the ground even as he started twisting to fight it. He guessed - rightly, but in a confused, head-swimming way - that the hood was soaked with something, because he heard a car door slam, and then his consciousness untethered from his body, and everything went black.

* * *

Wesley woke up, turned his head, and was almost sick. He spat to get the worst of the sour taste out of his mouth and then, too weak to move, he let himself go limp and just breathe.

The first solid, real feeling was the cold surface under his cheek. Metal. He opened his eyes and gradually became aware of the room, as it coalesced from the white noise of whatever drugs were in his system. 

He became aware that the hard, cold feeling was… everywhere. From his cheek to his shoulders, down his back. He was naked. He shivered. He moved his legs and arms experimentally, but nothing seemed to happen, except a few starts and jerks of his fingers and toes.

He blinked. The room looked blurry. It wasn’t just the drugs. They had taken his glasses. He couldn’t make out much of anything except dark walls and the bright light above him. The room smelled antiseptic. There was a heart monitor. His heartbeat was jogging along on the screen, rapid. He could feel the leads pulling at his chest as he gasped for breath. 

He heard an electronic lock click. A door opened behind him, where he couldn’t see. “He’s awake,” a female voice reported.

Wesley pulled at his straps again. “What is this? Who are you?”

“Please stay calm,” the same voice said. She sounded young. 

Wesley lay still for a long four seconds, and then yanked so hard at his bonds he should have bounced the gurney. It was bolted down. “Listen, you bitch -” 

“Ah, Mr. Wesley. You’re _definitely_ awake.” 

This voice was male, deep, and pure slime. It got in Wesley’s ears like oil. He hated it instantly. 

“Where am I? Who the hell are you?” Wesley was looking at the blurry figures upside-down, from where he was strapped down.

“You’re curious. That’s a good sign. No fog from the sedatives? Did you sleep well?”

“Fuck you,” Wesley said.

“Let’s not get off on the wrong foot,” the man said. He was standing over Wesley now, with what looked like a whole medical team, a flock of masked helpers with smocks and gloves. They started sliding trays into place, metal jingling against sanitized metal.

“What are you doing?” Wesley was going to stay in control of this situation. He was going to stay in control. He jerked his arm away from the needle, but he was strapped down tight. “What are you _doing_?”

“Blood samples,” the doctor in charge - he seemed to be in charge - said, sounding bored, sounding like he was only answering the question because the answer was of no use to Wesley whatsoever.

"Why?" Wesley demanded.

No answer this time, just a rush of activity to get a rubber band around his arm and gloved hands twisting the bend of his elbow to the lights.

Wesley craned his neck to watch as the needle plunged into his arm and the vial started filling with blood.

“What’s your name?” he demanded again.

“You can call me Dr. Michaels.” The man with the clipboard flashed him what was probably a smile, under his paper face mask. The corners of his grey eyes crinkled slightly.

“Is that your _real_ name?” Wesley asked.

Dr. Michaels twitched one eyebrow, a visual smirk.

“We’ll find out. When my _employer_ finds out -”

“Wilson Fisk isn’t a credible concern,” Dr. Michaels said. “We’re beyond even his reach.”

They popped the needle out of his vein, and taped down a wad of cotton. Wesley flexed his fingers and tried to think. Who were they, and more importantly, what did they want. Get an answer to that, Wesley reminded himself, and start bargaining. Stay in control.

Dr. Michaels bent over him with a thermometer. "Open your mouth."

Wesley didn't. First bargain. They wanted his temperature, he wanted answers.

"Mr. Wesley, please cooperate. It will make everyone's lives easier."

Wesley peered at him and curled his lip.

"Nurse," Dr. Michaels said coldly.

Fingers jabbed into his cheeks above the tendons at his jaw, and the thermometer slid in. Wesley choked on it at first, gagging as it slid right by his tongue and set off his gag reflex, and it brought tears to his eyes. He coughed and sputtered as it was readjusted and hands kept his mouth closed.

Dr. Michaels was examining his body. Wesley was cold, goosefleshed all over, and shivering on the metal gurney. This was more vivisection than examination: they didn't care that he was alive, that his chest was heaving and he was closer to full-on panic by the second. Every touch of those latex gloves was making his muscles jump, making the nausea heavier in his stomach.

"Normal external development, category two. In utero exposure must have been minimal. Parts per thousand. Unstrap his ankles."

Dr. Michaels was putting on fresh gloves.

What happened next, Wesley fought hard; it left bruises on his arms for weeks after. But no matter how hard he fought, how much proof he had that he didn't just let it _happen_ to him, it wasn’t enough. He never forgot. He never forgave himself, or them.

Somewhere along the way, they yanked the thermometer out of his mouth and he sobbed out loud.

Dr. Michaels was just about finished when the door opened. Wesley’s heart rate was through the roof, heading for cardiac event territory. 

“Results, Doctor.” Another anonymous helper in medical-green.

“Anything unusual?” Dr. Michaels asked.

“Blood hCG’s at ten thousand mIU.”

“That’s interesting.” Dr. Michaels took the paperwork from the scrub-draped assistant, and ran his eyes over it. He turned the page. He smiled behind his mask. 

"Well. We're going to be seeing a lot of each other. Congratulations, Mr. Wesley. You’re pregnant. "

 

That news sent the energy in the room in a different direction: suddenly they needed more blood, suddenly more carts of equipment were rolled in. Wesley thought of Fisk and he tried - he tried so hard - to keep his composure. He closed all the doors in his mind. He went to a dark, private place, where he could be alone. He kept his eyes shut; they were full of tears again, and he wasn’t going to give in.

Cold gel on his abdomen. His stomach fluttered as he took a surprised breath.

He tried not to listen as Dr. Michaels clipped out commands. He centered himself, in himself, and tried to focus on hate. On what he would do to these people, every one of them.

Some of the outside slipped past his defenses. He felt the blunt rod slipping across his stomach, pressing, moving, and he heard the sudden, breathless “ _There_.”

Someone tapped his face, the back of two fingers against his cheekbone.

“Have a look, James,” Dr. Michaels said, as if they were suddenly the best of friends.

Wesley opened his eyes resentfully. He saw the ultrasound monitor, a ghostly kaleidoscope of black and white. He wasn’t sure what he was looking at, but he recognized, intellectually, that it was _inside_ of him. But he couldn't process it. He shook his head, looked away.

Dr. Michaels was excited, in a monstrous way. “Five or six weeks of development. Seeing this up close, from so early on, is a godsend. I’m glad we pulled you in when we did."

Wesley turned his head away, against the gurney, and unshed tears slipped down his cheek.

“No need for that, James. You’re in the very best hands.”

Dr. Michaels called for an IV to keep him hydrated and balance some of the numbers in his bloodwork, and something to calm him down. Wesley, sick, exhausted, and still spaced from the first round of sedatives, closed his eyes and crashed asleep.


End file.
